


I Wanted to Play for Spain

by hpdm4ever, MessiFangirl (hpdm4ever)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Argentina National Team, El Clásico, FC Barcelona, Football | Soccer, Gen, Gen Work, Head Injury, Real Madrid CF, Secrets, Spanish National Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 12:24:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3447095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/hpdm4ever, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/MessiFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I couldn't tell him," Messi murmurs, still holding onto Iker. His eyes shut for a moment, dark lashes fanning out against his pale skin, before opening and staring up at the blue sky. </p><p>Iker taps him on the cheek lightly, unintentionally leaving a streak of mud from his glove. "Look at me," he says. "What couldn't you tell him?" he asks, playing along. He moves from squatting to kneel in the mud closer to Messi's face. He looks at Messi's pupils, and honestly is a little alarmed at the size of them. In fact he's so disturbed that he almost misses Messi's next sentence.</p><p>"I wanted to play for Spain," the smaller man slurs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wanted to Play for Spain

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during a fictional game between Real Madrid and Barcelona.
> 
> Also, I know you're all surprised, but this isn't porn. Sometimes I write gen stories! I hope you'll still read it and tell me what you think :)

Iker carefully watches Rakitić's ball as it comes into the box, and then with a shout heedlessly launches himself off his line and into the fray. 

The keeper hits both Sergio and Piqué on the way down, clashing into sharp shoulders and sweaty jerseys, but his gloves cling to the floating ball as he pulls it in. He wraps his arms protectively around it, squeezing it as hard as he can, as he tucks his head in and lands hard onto the wet pitch with a squelch. The roar of the crowd begins to swell, and their chants are music to his ears. 

He takes a deep breath and ignores his aching body and the water soaking through his kit, both reminding him that he's really starting to be too old for this shit. He shakes those thoughts out of his head immediately. Because it's a victory, albeit a small one. Every save is one step closer to a win.

But one misstep and it would have been a different situation. If he had missed, the ball could have fallen towards Messi and Pepe who were furiously sliding into the post next to him with a clang, cursing as hands shoved against each other and jerseys were pulled. And Iker lifts his head to see Neymar hovering somehow unmarked on his other side, having beaten Marcelo by inches and waiting for a rebound.

So Iker can't help but come up screaming at the defense, curses dripping from his lips as he pulls Pepe up by the arm and then pushes Marcelo out of the area. He shakes his head and wipes his brow with his sleeve, waiting for them to get clear before carefully bouncing the ball once. Sergio stands his ground, pulling Iker into a hug and panting numerous thank yous into his ear for saving their asses once again. Iker claps him on the shoulder, because at least he had Piqué covered, and then shoos him away.

He sees Cristiano waving at him and is quick to release it his way, watching as the ball arcs perfectly to land on the number seven's chest. Iker keeps his gaze focused as Cristiano begins to thunder down the wing, watching him do a flashy step over and then those long legs beginning to sprint, but finds himself turning when the crowd begins to jeer and whistle behind him. He looks around and is surprised to see Leo Messi is still in the box.

️Messi is on his hands and knees, slowly crawling away from where he'd been sitting against the goalpost having lost the battle with Pepe. His bluagrana kit is stained with mud, due to slipping and sliding all over the pitch-- though it's nothing compared to what's happened to Madrid's white jerseys. As Iker watches, Messi raises a hand to his head before dropping it and shaking his head side to side.

"Alright?" Iker asks, eyes half on the game and half on Messi. It seems that none of Barcelona's other players have noticed yet that their star player has been slow to get to his feet. Though to be fair, Iker might not have noticed except for the obnoxious fans behind him, screaming profanities and laughing at Messi's misfortune.

️Messi gets to a knee and then slowly climbs to his feet, squishing in the wet grass. He looks hazily at Iker, shading his eyes as he studies the keeper. "Yes, of course," he says softly, rubbing the back of his head again. He furrows his brow and stares at Iker, not paying attention at all to where Barcelona are strenuously defending a series of attacks.

Messi's always unnerved Iker. 

They both have a grudging respect for each other, clearly knowing the other is a formidable opponent. They also don't talk much, if at all, so they largely ignore each other. But at the moment, Iker is finding it difficult to do so. The staring is really starting to distract him. He tries to watch as James sends a long ball to Karim, beautiful pinpoint accuracy from the Colombian, but he finds his eyes going back to Messi. "What?" he finally asks, fed up.

Messi clears his throat. "Did we--are we," he begins, glancing around and then rubbing his forehead. "Is Argentina winning?" he finally asks, obviously confused.

And Iker can't help jerking around to look directly at Messi. "Shit," he says, taking a step in Messi's direction. "How hard did you hit your head? Where do we think we are?" Concussions are nothing to joke about. They all know that, and despite Messi being on the opposite team, he can't help but be concerned.

Messi takes a wavering step towards him. And then another, wobbling. "Aren't we playing Spain?" he asks, taking another unsteady step towards the keeper. "Where's Xavi?" he asks, finally looking up the field.

"Xavi's on the bench," Iker replies, waving to try to get Sergio's attention. "Hey!" he finally shouts, after seeing Sergio turn his way, gesturing towards his head and then Messi.

"Why's Xavi on the bench?" Messi asks, still confused, as he takes a final step towards Iker. The crowd continues to laugh and jeer behind them, and Messi looks over at them in surprise.

The smaller man begins swaying, a slow lean to first one side and then the other, and Iker reaches out to grab him by the shoulders. "I have no idea," he mutters. "I think you're gonna need to sit down," he says, trying to press Messi to the ground as the ball is finally kicked out of bounds and Sergio points back towards them.

Messi frowns and puts his hands on top of Iker's gloves. "Oh," he says. "Is Xavi mad at me?" he asks Iker, letting go and then clinging to Iker's jersey as Iker forcibly lowers him to the soggy ground. Messi's fingers clench in the material and he refuses to let go, even when his back is flat on the pitch. 

Iker ends up hovering over him. Messi widens his eyes pitifully when Iker doesn't answer straight away, and Iker is struck by how young he looks. It crosses his mind that the smaller man is six years younger than him. A kid in Iker's eyes. Easy to forget, except for moments like this. "Why would Xavi be mad at you?" he asks, freeing one hand and waving at the the medical personnel frantically. The referee has finally given the okay for them to enter and they're all heading his way now. The crowd have started to whistle irritatingly, thinking Messi is wasting time. 

"I couldn't tell him," Messi murmurs, still holding onto Iker. His eyes shut for a moment, dark lashes fanning out against his pale skin, before opening and staring up at the blue sky. 

Iker taps him on the cheek lightly, unintentionally leaving a streak of mud from his glove. "Look at me," he says. "What couldn't you tell him?" he asks, playing along. He moves from squatting to kneel in the mud closer to Messi's face. He looks at Messi's pupils, and honestly is a little alarmed at the size of them. In fact he's so disturbed that he almost misses Messi's next sentence.

"I wanted to play for Spain," the smaller man slurs. His words are starting to run together as he fights to keep his eyes open, but Iker can only stare at him in shock. Messi turns his head a little as he tries to look directly at Iker. His gaze is still unfocused. "I wanted to play with Xavi, and Geri, and Cesc, and Andrés, and you..." The list of names is slow and eventually Messi trails off, frowning and thinking hard, but unable to finish.

"What about Argentina?" Iker asks quickly, seeing the medics are almost upon them. Behind them, having finally noticed the problem, are Neymar and Piqué and Mascherano.

"I tried to love Argentina," Messi mumbles. His fingers twitch in Iker's jersey. "They didn't give me a choice." He sounds hurt and angry to Iker, and a hint of tears glimmer in his dark eyes, though the expression on his face doesn't change. "They threatened my family," he says quietly, to Iker's surprise. 

Iker doesn't know what to say. He's shocked. He once asked Piqué and Xavi why they couldn't convince Messi to play for Spain, but neither would give Iker a straight answer. Now he knows that maybe it was because they didn't know the whole story either.

"Argentina loves only one person," Messi says finally. "And he is not me... But Spain... *I* love Spain." His eyes shut again for a long blink. "I think they could have loved me back." He tugs Iker's jersey closer. "I wanted to play for Spain," he whispers. "Don't tell Xavi."

And then the medics are there, gently pushing Iker away as they swarm around Messi frantically. 

Piqué approaches him with Sergio trailing not too far behind. "What happened?" he asks, trying to see into the circle of bodies blocking Messi from their view.

"Must have hit his head during the corner," Iker says slowly, still trying to process what Messi said to him. "He didn't know where he was. Thought Argentina was playing Spain." 

Sergio smiles a little and then tries to hide it. He lifts the tail of his jersey up to wipe his face, exposing his tanned belly. "Concussed then?" he asks, clearly hoping the answer is yes and that Messi will have to leave the game. Piqué snorts in disgust next to him, scratching a hand through the scruff on his chin, and storms off to try to fight his way through to Messi. He makes it, and shoulders down to place a hand on Messi's cheek and says something Iker can't hear.

Iker finds that he can't smile back at Sergio. Not after what he just heard from Messi. "Definitely," he says. "He's not getting back up from that." As if to prove his point, they start loading Messi on to the stretcher. The crowd roars in approval, and Iker watches placidly as the fans celebrate Messi's injury with gusto. Confetti and bottles rain down behind the goal as they begin to sing and chant again.

Iker shakes his head and tells Sergio to get back into position as they cart Messi off the field. He tries to keep the anger out of his voice. His feet take the short walk back to the goal mouth, squishing in the mud. He looks down at his gloves and needlessly tightens the velcro as the teams get back into formation, with Pedro being substituted for Messi.

He thinks about all of the goals Messi's scored, his annihilation of decades old records, the awards he's won with Barcelona...

But most of all, Iker can't help imagining what might have been.

If Messi had been allowed to do what he truly wanted.

And played for Spain.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure some of us always wondered why Leo decided to play for Argentina instead of Spain, especially after everything Barcelona did for him. No offense meant to Argentina. I'm positive Leo loves Argentina with all his heart. Just kept thinking about this and decided to write it!


End file.
